Coffee Stains
by sayaanara
Summary: She's annoyed at all his tedious orders. He's entranced by her seamless charm. When two opposites attract, these two strangers find solace in the similarities they share with one another. But they soon discover that there's more than what appears on the surface, as they each harbor secrets that haunt them both. [[Zutara/Modern AU]]
1. Prologue

**A/N:** Well hello, hello. This is my first time writing for this ship, but noting as I've shipped them since I was twelve, I figured I'd honor them with some fanfiction. Also, my best friend ships zutara. What can I say? I am weak.

* * *

 **.: Coffee Stains :.**

.: Prologue :.

* * *

She'd be lying if she said his scar isn't the first thing she notices. And she's never been one to lie. The second thing is his voice. It comes out in a sort of rasp, each vowel and syllable granulating as it passes his tongue and leaves his lips in octaves that rise merely a nuance above silence.

He says his name is Zuko.

Scribbling it on the side of the plastic to-go cup with a black sharpie, she gives a short and weary sigh. "Anything else I can get for you?" she asks him. His eyes, a fervent golden color, seem to grin at her. But the rest of him is solemn, serious. He shakes his head no.

She tells him the price. Tells him to wait.

And he smiles at her. Smiles.

She doesn't understand a lot of things in life, and this stranger surely is one of them. For he comes in twice, perhaps thrice a week and orders all sorts of odd, cumbersome concoctions. Mocha decaf macchiatos. Chai cappuccinos with double shots of espresso. Vanilla raspberry lattes with chocolate almond milk. Extra whipped cream. Sometimes sprinkles. And the funny thing is that he never finishes the beverage. She's seen him before, she now realizes, he just takes a couple of sips, makes a face, throws out the drink, and leaves. She'd be peeved to take his order if it wasn't for that hefty ten dollar tip.

Gosh. What a waste of money.

For a moment, she stares at him. Unapologetically so. Because his scar—a red, ugly thing marring the skin around his left eye—seems to contradict his gentle demeanor. His ripped jeans juxtapose the prim polo shirt he wears, and the hoodie that practically buries the other half of his face makes it seem like he's trying to hide the more appealing aspects of him. And yet his smile is warm. He's made of all sorts of contradictions, she supposes. He could be just another regular dude if it weren't for his scar and his clothes and his tedious orders.

"One decaf triple shot espresso with coconut flavoring coming right up," she says after ringing his order up on the cash register.

"Thank you," he says, handing her some cash, tip included.

And the final thing she notices, is the bruises on his knuckles and his wrists. She has to swallow the gasp in her throat, for the bluish purple markings appall her. He must not have noticed her reaction, because he takes his change, drops it into his jean pocket, and smiles again.

Without another word, Katara goes to start his drink. They don't speak another word to each other.

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 **A/N:** Thanks so much for reading the prologue! Please leave review/follow/fave/show your support somehow. Chapter one will be coming soon. Have a good one! My tumblr is natiwati, should you wish to contact me there :)


	2. Suco

**A/N:** Chapters will be getting longer once they actually meet, but for now we only have a look into their primal thoughts. Please be sure to leave a review if you would like to see more of this story :)

* * *

 **.: Coffee Stains :.**

.: Chapter I :.

.: _Suco_ :.

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She spells his name wrong.

Again.

Zuko smirks as he waits for his drink, knowing he's the only human in existence who enjoys iced espresso. The barista—Katara, her name tag read—widened her eyes once he'd pronounced the order. She always does that, and part of him suspects she already knows what to expect when he waltzes in through the door. And yet she's seemingly always caught off guard by his orders. Always. He gains a sliver of satisfaction out of that.

Call him a weirdo. Whatever.

But the only reason he ever even bothers with this coffee shop is because of her. Granted, he doesn't know her, but there's something so familiar about her eyes, about how their icy exterior melts with the warmth of her voice. Everything about her just seems to flow. Her movements, her gaze, her words. She's like a stream of fluidity, and the way she carries herself reminds him of a steady trickle of water, not fervent enough to be a torrent, but still very much there. Enough to be felt. Experienced.

Everything about her feels subtle, coy yet fervent, and he can't help but be fascinated by that. Because her exterior is so intimidating and austere, yet her demeanor is so gentle. Her tanned skin stretches tight across her meek curves under her uniform, the sharp points and ridges of her face. He's never been close enough to be able to dwell on them, but he suspects she has a dusting of tiny freckles littered across her cheeks. She looks no older than him either, whereas the rest of the staff seems to be twice their age. A family owned business, he supposes. And among the wrinkled, smiling faces, hers sticks out like an abnormal tendril of youthful beauty, attracting perhaps much unwanted admiration.

And he sure is full of that.

The cafe's stucco walls are adorned with all sorts of artwork. Some of it is for sale, some of it isn't, but that's its only redeeming quality, if you ask him: decent decorating.

That, and Katara.

The first time he ever walked in he'd had no intention of staying. The place itself was direly unattractive, and if it wasn't for his friend Aang dragging him in because of his crush on the young barista, he would've pounced upon entering just a single step.

It wasn't until he caught sight of those bistre curls and rich, blue eyes that he'd thought to challenge himself with a drink order far outside anything he would usually have. Because just her face felt rebelliously endearing, outside of this world.

And that's how it started. With the very eyes that stare at him now.

"It'll just be a second," she tells him.

He nods.

She disappears, handling the espresso machine. The smell of granulated coffee beans wafts off into the air around him, filling his senses with something rich and exciting.

You see, Zuko likes his coffee black. But he figures that frequenting this cafe to catch a regular glimpse of her is adventurous enough (and utterly unlike him), so pairing specialty drinks with the endeavor makes him look like less of a creep. And it gives him a good excuse to come here.

He's never said more than four words to her, but that's okay.

"Thanks," he tells her as she hands him his iced espresso with coconut flavoring. Make that five words now.

She just looks at him.

And that's it. Just like that, she turns her head to the customer beside him and asks, "Hello there. What can I do for you?" and he is reminded that although to him she may shine as bright as the moon, to her he is just a face among the crowd of strangers demanding their coffee. Just a flicker of a flame, pulsing quietly with feeble breaths that amount to nothing.

His sore, bruised hand aches as he coils it tightly around the to-go cup and walks away, taking a sip, two, of his beverage. It tastes fine, nothing spectacular, but once he reaches the door, he's no longer in need of putting on a show, convinced of no possibility of her eyes being on him. So he swallows one last gulp, wipes his mouth with the edge of his wrist, and discards the plastic cup that reads "Suco" in the nearest trash can.

Someday, he'll glean the courage to tell her how to spell his name correctly.


	3. The Sharpie

**A/N** : I'm back! And I'm deep in atla hell (help me) so expect chapters to get longer and for things to begin to occur :)

* * *

 **.: Coffee Stains :.**

.: Chapter II :.

.: _The Sharpie_ :.

* * *

She knows how to spell his name.

Katara does not know what compels her to taunt him, what drives her fingers to coil around the black sharpie in her hand and fix it upon the plastic to-go cup, only to scribble "Suco' when she very well knows his name is not that. And something in her tells her he knows that she knows, too. Because when she hands him his drink, his fiery eyes grin after they course through the scribble.

"My name is Zuko," he tells her that day, his voice leaving him with a sigh.

Katara blinks at him, says nothing.

"Zuko," he repeats, with that granulating, sighing voice of his. "With a K and a Z."

"I know," she retorts suddenly, in a voice much sterner than she intended. And, without a word, she extends her hand out to him, palm facing upwards, and waits.

Zuko stares at her, mildly shocked. After a moment, two, he gives her some cash, tells her to keep the change, and waits for his drink.

His face is hot. His cheeks practically feel themselves turn a bright hue of red. Fixing the hood of his jacket over his head, he swallows, listens to the mechanics of the espresso machine puffing and whirring. He hears Katara groan once, then the coffee shop goes silent.

So silent.

When her blue eyes rise to find him, he is not there. Zuko has left without his drink, and a heavy weight within the girl drops at the realization. Was it something she said? Did her mindless bad spelling cause her to lose a customer?

Oh, well. What does it matter?

Days roll on by, and the black sharpie in Katara's hand never ceases to scribble this name and that, tying to each drink a stranger's preferences. You see, as much as she complains, being a barista is kind of fun. She gets to know the most intimate aspects of people, because nothing spells out one's character like what they choose to slurp into their body first thing in the morning.

And it is on a day like that, at approximately mid-morning, that he comes back.

Him.

With his scars and bruises and his hoodie and his ripped jeans and converse full of rain and wet dirt. Droplets pitter-patter outside, pounding unto the world ferociously, humming a long, drawn out song. Katara glances upward, and blue meets gold, their gazes hold one another.

For a moment, the rain is the only sound around them, and it occurs to her that the coffee shop is nearly empty. Their singular bodies, hers and his, occupy all the space, divided by the coffee-stained counter.

Supple lips part, but nothing trespasses them.

They stand in silence.

"Katara," her brother, Sokka, suddenly blurts from behind her.

With a start, she jumps, asks, "How may I help you, sir?"

"Just a black coffee for here," Zuko tells her, and hands her a wad of cash before she can even pronounce the next few words. "Keep the change."

A nod. "Thank you," she whispers, handing the money over to her brother, whom cashes it out and places the rest in the tip jar they share. As she pours a fresh cup of black coffee, she realizes her hands are shaking.

"What is wrong with me?" she breathes to herself, turning slowly.

And he's gone.

Again.

Gone.

"Where'd he go?" Sokka implores, his head turning left and right.

Katara's gaze follows the jingle of the front door opening, and she sees his shadow egressing.

Coffee splatters over the counter as the cup slams onto it.

"Katara?" Sokka questions, but she's out the door before he can even blink.

"Hey!" she calls out behind the dwindling figure, her voice nearly drowned out by the sound of the rain. "What do you think you're doing?"

Zuko stalls, turns, looks at her.

"Excuse me?"

"You think this is just some charity?" she fumes, her tan cheeks burning ruddy with anger. "You can't just give us your money and walk away!"

The shadow of a smile crosses his lips. "Oh? I'm sorry."

"Yeah!" And it occurs to her that they are standing in the rain, like a pair of idiots, shouting so that their words reach one another. "So… So come back and take your coffee!"

The boy sighs.

"What is my name?" he asks her suddenly, and Katara balks.

The rain has seeped into her long brown hair, her clothes, her shoes. She blinks, realizes where she is, the ridiculous nature of this situation, and, without a word, she runs towards the stranger, grabs his hand, turns it so that the palm is facing her, and with the sharpie from her apron pocket, she writes.

"As long as I am here," she tells him, staring into his shocked eyes. "You finish your drinks. Got it?"

Lips parted, eyes wide, he nods.

Katara disappears back into the coffee shop, her heartbeat thrumming in her ears.

"What was that?" he brother asks her once she's back inside.

"Nothing," she says, wringing the rain from her hair. "That guy is a total weirdo."

Despite herself, she stares back over her shoulder at the man standing outside. Through the glass of the large window, she makes out the corners of his bemused face. It is not until the very last second, when her eyes turn away, that he smiles at the scribble on his palm.

"Zuko".


End file.
